


I wish I was

by GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld



Series: I wish I was [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld/pseuds/GirlInLoveWithTheWrongWorld
Summary: Bucky tries to navigate his new life; you try to pick up the pieces of yours.Somehow you meet.





	I wish I was

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at publishing fan fiction.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

Soft light illuminates your bedroom, rays of sunshine peak through your blinds. The day has not yet started and yet you already feel tired. Working in an office and writing your Phd thesis simultaneously were challenging but you wouldn't give up one or the other: finishing off your studies with a Phd were your dream ever since you can remember and working in an office was boring from time to time but it paid your bills. So you sigh and get ready for the day.

You smile reading the message from your mother half way across the world. You missed your family dearly but you knew that staying at home was never an option for you. At best, home felt familiar; at worst it felt constricting. So when the time came to pack up your bags and leave you felt at peace with your decision. Your mother was telling you how much they'd all miss you and she ended with a promises of skyping later that night. You close your laptop, drink the last drops of tea and grab your things. The walk to the train station is short and you see the usual ghost like faces of the morning commuters. They do not greet you and you do not greet them but somehow you share an understanding that this part of the day should be spent in friendly, anonymous staring out of windows and pretending that the respective others do not exist. You were more than fine with that. The train comes to a stop and you get in.

Across town, he stares blankly at the ceiling. Another nightmare has kept him up, frightening images of contorted faces mocking him. He does not know whether they are memories his subconsciousness wants him to remember or if they are simply a way of his mind to taunt him, but they leave him empty and loaded at the same time. Truth be told, he'd rather stay awake for the rest of his life than to face the pictures his mind conjures but he knows that he needs some sort of rest if he wants to keep up some strength because he knows one thing: he'd rather die than be captured by them again. He'd rather leave this world with some peaceful memories than become their puppet again. Some few glimpses of beauty and tranquillity grant him the strength to get up in the mornings, get dressed and join the world that has utterly failed him.

His apartment does not hold any possessions he cherishes. Everything he cares for, few as it is, is stored in a backpack next to his bed; always ready for someone or something to come in and take him back to that horrendous place. But despite his firm belief that he deserves endless pain and torture, he will not easily give up this life he has built for himself. If he was to go down, he would go down fighting. 70 years ago the world had killed James Buchanan Barnes and had created the Winter Soldier in his place. Now it was time to see who he could be. 

You sit in front of your supervisor and don't know whether to laugh or to cry. They had to make cuts, she said, and she is very sorry to inform you that the company has no other option than to let you go. Granted, the job they had you do was tedious and lately, more often than not, you wondered if you should keep your position at all or whether finding a new job better suited for you also represented a possibility but you are terrified. You get up and shake her hand and then you're at your cubicle packing away your things. Your colleagues pat you on the back, promising that they will keep in touch and that sometimes life just deals you shitty cards. Smiling and with the box of your few belongings you leave them, not truly knowing what to do.

The train ride does not seem right to you. Your commute was normally packed with other people wanting to get to work or to get back at home. You had rarely seen a train so void of people. The view from the train window is calming. Small houses with large gardens are framing the landscape; birds of every sort are chirping in the fields. The box next to you is a reminder that the pieces of your life are utter disarray; you need to figure out what to do next. The conductor announces the next stop and somehow, without truly realising why, you get off the train and wander around town, longing for the tranquillity of the day to somehow instil into your own mind and body.

He remembers reading that plums are supposed to be good for people with memory loss. And even though he is aggravated that his mind somehow forgot parts of the good memories, the memories with a boy called Steve, he is also grateful that he cannot remember everything they had done to him. That wasn't to say that he forgot what he himself had done – every pained cry, every plea for mercy is imprinted in his every being and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he will always remember the deeds his hands have done. And while humanity may hate him for his actions or congratulate him for shaping a century, the hatred he harbours for himself, the anger he feels while looking in a mirror and the sheer terror and disgust he feels while glancing down to his arm, cannot be matched by no one but himself. 

He stands in front of a market stand and tries to decide how many plums he should get. He likes the taste of them in his mouth, the sweetness of their juice trying to soothe the rawness of his soul. Every fruit he tasted seemed to become a happy memory to him so he decides on ordering more than just a handful. 

The quaint café reminds you of the town you called home for over six years. Those were the years you finally knew who you wanted to be and ultimately turned you into the person you are today. It was a smaller town with rivers and streams and ponds and the people were friendly. You sometimes still longed to go back there where everything had been easier somehow, more fleeting and stable at the same time. For now, you settle in the almost empty café and order tea and a piece of apple pie. The elderly woman smiles when she puts your order down and suddenly your mouth begins to speak without your brain's permission. “Excuse me, but you aren't looking for someone to help you out with your café, are you?” The woman is stunned for a second then smiles. “Well, my daughter just had her first child and since she always helped me bake my pies and tartes and cakes, I will have to look for someone sooner or later. Why are you asking, dear?” You don't know why asked; your plan was to apply to another open position at an office but ultimately you know that your office career has come to an end. And you aren't unhappy about it. “I am looking for a job and I know that this is most probably highly unconventional but I am desperate at the moment so would you hire me? I have always loved baking. My grandma taught me when I was very young and I find baking relieves stress, wouldn't you say so? Anyway, my tarte tartin is heavenly according to my friends and I make a mean chocolate cake.” Your ramblings had come to an end and the woman looked at you with wide eyes. “I...well.. you see.” “Please”, you say. “I just lost my job and I really, really need the money but I also really, really hated working there. So please, would you give me a chance?” The woman begins to smile, stating that “Come by tomorrow morning at 5 o'clock and we'll see how mean your chocolate cake really is.” You both chuckled and after exchanging names and phone numbers you made your way to the train station, somehow not believing how your life had changed in the past couple of hours.

The plums in his back pack bring a small smile to his lips. Today had been a good day, he muses. Although the feeling of being watched, either by Hydra spies or people looking at his metal arm, never vanishes completely, he could somehow push the feeling aside on this particular day. He walks up the stairs to the train station and assesses every possible route in case of an enemy attack. But all he sees are a mother with her two children, explaining to them why candy could not replace their dinner. The memory hits him like a bullet: Steve, the boy he used to know and himself, or rather the person he used to be, were strolling down a quiet street in a city; talking about everything and nothing. They stepped into a small candy shop, the shelves brimming with licorice, bubblegum and chocolate of all flavours. “Come on, Buck. Just try it. Just this once.” “I already told you a million times, Steve: I will never, and I repeat that, I will never try this disgusting looking thing. I don't understand why they have to sell it in the same store with perfectly good chocolate. People who'd rather buy stuff that tastes like old shoelaces instead of divine chocolate must be out of their minds.” He is now smirking at Steve who laughs and continues to put black licorice into a small candy bag. “Well, then clearly I am out of my mind, Buck. I happen to like the taste of licorice just fine.” “That's because you're a punk.” “Jerk.” The two young men begin to laugh and the memory dissolves as soon as it started. It leaves him paralysed, unable to think or move a limb. Bits and pieces of his memories come back to him randomly. Sometimes they were small incidents like a particular nice and sunny afternoon in Brooklyn, the sun streaming in his bedroom and the smell of his mother's baking making its way into his nostrils. Those memories were bittersweet. Somehow they made existing more bearable, making life worth living because he knew, despite all atrocities done to and by him, there was still goodness in the world, an innocence not even a monster like him could erase. Other times, his mind was not so gentle, being more relentless in its pursuit of filling in the blank pages. Those were the memories of being tortured by Hydra, the ever lasting abuse his mind and body had suffered. Cold sweats and the fear of sleep were the result. Memories of Steve were even more difficult to handle. They showed the two of them together, Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, walking down the streets of Brooklyn. They showed the pair in diners and cinemas, laughing and joking and enjoying themselves. They showed the two soldiers in a tight embrace after Steve, now publicly known as Captain America, had saved him from the grasp of Hydra. But Steve couldn't save him that second time, no one could.  
The train begins to leave the station, leaving a transfixed man behind. 

The walk to the train station gives you time to think; time to try and make sense of your current situation. Sure, you were horrified that your position in the office was terminated. It allowed you to pursue your dream of becoming a literature scholar and teaching other students who also shared the passion of reading and writing. But working in an office did not make you happy, it was more often than not tedious work which paid your bills. And even though you would have never yourself left your position, you couldn't help but wonder if this was your sign to do something that you actually enjoy. You step onto the platform and make a mental list of things you want to do when you get home. You desperately need to go to the shops to buy the things needed for your chocolate cake. You also need to explain the day's events to your mother; of course she wouldn't be happy about the turn of events but she would come round. No matter how much your mother disapproved of your life choices, she always supported and trusted you to do what you deemed best for yourself. The smile which makes its way onto your face is genuine. Somehow, you knew, things were changing. The train arrives and you try to find a seat.

He waits another twenty minutes until he is able to focus again. His surroundings become clearer and his breath, short and ragged before, is now somewhat calm. The train is packed with people now. The commuters are done with their day's work and want nothing more than to be at home, quiet and in peace. He sits down at a window seat, watching houses pass him by. The train comes to another stop and he becomes more impatient with every minute. He hates the feeling of being in a small space with next to no possible escape route. He hates the way it makes him feel powerless, caged like an animal. And he hates the way train rides bring back one of his earliest memories he had regained; the ice-covered hill tops passing him by at an alarming rate, the smell of fresh snow and the feeling of falling. That's what he remembers distinctly. No training, no planning ahead could have prepared him for that. But he has to tell himself that he is not in any hazardous situation right now. He is just taking a train, trying to get from one destination to another. He draws in a breath, trying to regulate the hurrying beat of his heart. And then he hears a female voice asking “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” and the feeling of powerlessness comes back. His head wisps around to try and evaluate the situation, to gauge if the woman poses any threat whatsoever and if she is a Hydra agent, taunting him. But all he sees is a woman standing there, asking if the seat opposed to him is free. And he knows, he knows that this woman does not represent a threat; somehow he knows that she would not harm him. But he is afraid to speak, terrified that his voice will reveal how utterly terrified he feels in this train, in this city, in this world he does not belong in. So he nods his head slightly and hopes that it will be enough. The woman smiles gratefully in return and sits down, not knowing that the man opposite tries very hard not to get up from his seat and jump from the moving train.

It's not like you hate train rides; in fact, the opposite is true. You like how the scenery changes so quickly, how the landscapes form memories in your head. You cherish the time you spend on trains because it gave you time to remember and time to think. What you do not like about trains is the feeling of being trapped. You also dislike how the trains are brimming with people. Ever since you were a teenager, you disliked great crowds. The older you got the worse your anxiety became, resulting in sweaty palms, laboured breath and heart racing. The doctors told you that panic attacks come in various kinds and that they are not something to be afraid of; an inconvenience at best. Yet you cannot not feel helpless when confronted with such a situation – rationally you know that you are healthy and that an attack comes and goes without any true consequences. But the fear of fear itself doesn't vanish. And here you are, sitting opposite a handsome man and your palms start to feel sweaty, your throat constricts and you feel as if you can't breathe. You try to regain some sort of tranquility; you look out the window and block out the noises of the other passengers. For a moment, this actually works until, you don't know why or how, the feeling of dread becomes a full blown panic attack. You want nothing more than to jump from the moving train, to feel the air actually filling your lungs but you can't because the next stop is miles away and even if you got off you'd still have to get home somehow. No, you knew that this feeling would pass. This has become your mantra with dealing such a situation. It would pass. It always has. This was no different.  
“Excuse me, are you... are you... alright?” you hear someone ask you.

He wearily watches the young woman across from him. So far, he couldn't detect any danger but this was Hydra's specialty: making him feel safe just to come at him in full force; reward him for a mission well executed only to torture him over and over and over again. But when he looks at her he doesn't see danger. He sees a young woman looking out of the window. She is pretty, beautiful even. Next to her sits a box full of folders and some framed pictures of her together with other people; friends he assumes. Another shows two cats, a black one and a tabby cat. Her life is passing before his eyes. Domesticity, happiness and love. Love. So much love. Suddenly, he is angry at her. No, not her, not really. At Hydra for turning him into a monster; at the universe for allowing them to do so; and most fervently at himself for not fighting harder against them, for not rebelling, for not having the courage to end his own existence when he had the chance. His cowardice had cost countless people their lives. He is ashamed of being James Buchanan Barnes. 

A quiet noise pulls him from his thoughts. The woman across from him shifts in her seat and only then do his advanced senses observe how her breath is laboured and her pulse is racing. Her complexion turned ashen; her eyes rapidly take in the scenery outside of the train. He recognises her behaviour; he had dealt with panic attacks ever since freeing himself from Hydra's prison. And somehow he wants to help her. He doesn't know why or even how, but he wants to help her. Maybe because he thinks that even though he will never atone for his actions, he could start by helping a young woman suffering from a panic attack. Without thinking about it twice, he asks her quietly “Excuse me..” His voice breaks when she looks at him. “Are you...are you alright?” It's been so long since he last truly spoke to someone. He can't remember when he initiated a conversation apart from ordering plums at the market. Her eyes widen, and for a moment he regrets saying something. Then, reluctantly, she shakes her head. “Can I do... something?” “Could you.. could you just keep talking? I just... that sometimes helps. The distraction, I mean.” He nods his head in understanding. “I don't really know what to say. Just.. I.. Did you know that plums help people with memory loss?” She shakes her head. “Yeah, um, I don't really know how or anything but um, apparently they do.” He does not know what to say next. Before, he was good at making small talk. Hell, he was good at talking full stop. Now, words were his enemy. They reminded him of their power over him. She looks at him expectantly and he wants to try, he wants to try for her. “I like plums.” she states. “If they're ripe enough they make an excellent pie.” He is dumbfounded. His stupid attempt at smalltalk actually worked. “So, um,... do you like...baking? I mean, because you just said pie and I..” She smiles at him then. “I love baking. My grandma taught me and I don't know, it feels therapeutic somehow? Like... I have all these ingredients and if I put them together something delicious will be the result. I know it sounds stupid...” “It doesn't.” Because he understands. He saw how his mother relished in baking, singing and swaying to a tune. He remembers himself in a garage working on a car, finding comfort in the quiet, Steve sometimes attempting to help him but failing. So he tells her. “I liked, um, working on cars. The quiet and um.. it's just... soothing?” “Exactly!” She laughs a little. “No one to disturb you. My grandma always said the best pies are baked in complete silence because only then can you truly appreciate your ingredients.” His lips twitch and a ghost of a smile appears on his face. “But you said you liked working on cars. As in past tense. Don't you...do that anymore?” He can't believe that she would care what he said. He didn't realise that he used past tense in the first place. His face must have given away his shock because she immediately regrets saying something. “Oh, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to pry. I just thought...” “It's um...alright. Don't worry about it.” He interrupts her. She still looks uncomfortable so he continues “It's just that I didn't really have time to... you know, do it.” “Oh, I see. But shouldn't you.. I mean, shouldn't you make time for something you enjoy?” He thinks about her statement for a second. “I suppose you're right. Maybe I should um, start again.” The smile she gives him is breathtaking. “You should definitely!” They are interrupted when the train starts to slow down and the conductor announces the next stop. “Well, that's me. Thank you for, you know, distracting me.” He stares at her and he realises that he doesn't want her to leave. He wants to keep talking to her, to get to know her. But he just nods and says “You're welcome.” She gets up, takes her box and for a moment he thinks he should say something, anything to hear her voice again. But he has always been a coward so when she smiles at him he manages a brief grin before he turns away. 

You step out of the train, lightheaded either from the panic attack or from talking to him – you don't know which. The train starts moving and you wish you didn't have to leave him. He was handsome, sure, with dark-brown hair that reaches his chin and blue-grey eyes made for swooning over. But it is his kindness that draws you to him; how he realised what you were going through – not judging but observing – and how he continued to talk even though you clearly saw how he struggled. No, it's not his handsome face or beautiful smile; it is his kindness you admire.  
With your box under your arm you sigh and make your way home.


End file.
